A Rose, Is A Rose, Is A Zombie Sort Of
by SilverKitsune1
Summary: Zombies kind of, zombies sort of everywhere and not one chainsaw in sight.


Title: A Rose, Is A Rose, Is A Zombie…Sort Of

Author: Silverkitsune1

Rating: R (language)

Summary: Zombies (kind of), zombies (sort of) everywhere and not one chainsaw in sight.

Author's Notes: Written for buffyspazz for the spnsummergen fic exchange with is an LJ group. There were so many wonderful pieces of fanfiction written for this exchange. I highly recommend you go read all of them.

Disclaimer: I don't own Sam. I don't own Dean. I don't even own the Impala. It's actually very sad.

* * *

The smell of the place was working its way into his pours, weaving into the fibers of his clothes and burrowing under his fingernails. Hair follicles, eye lashes, freckles and birth marks, every part of him now reeked and stank and Dean was sure he was going to have to scrub a layer of skin off of his person if he ever hoped to smell like a living thing again. The humid air did nothing but intensify the smell, and even the cologne soaked bandannas both he and Sam had tied around there noses failed to do much good.

"So," Dean asked. "How's it looking out there?"

One of the two men positioned by the door turned, but it was his companion who spoke.

"Come take a peek if you're so interested."

Sam met Dean's eyes briefly, and then his gaze slid to a point out of sight.

The wooden boards creaked noisily under Dean's boots. The older man, his hair iron gray and his face lined with deep wrinkles, glared at him from over the top of his own cloth nose guard.

Dean raised a hand and whipped the sweat off of his forehead.

The front door, which had been made of plywood and mosquito netting once upon a time, had two tables pressed against it, and an assortment of planks and wood scraps were nailed across the opening. If anything actually wanted in the makeshift barricade wouldn't stop them, but it would buy them time which was just as valuable as bullets or blessed silver. The man, who had called him over, Paul if Dean remembered right, was crouched near the door.

"Counted about six," he said softly, his eye pressed against the sliver of space that was their tiny window to the main street of Calm Water, Iowa. The butt of the man's rifle rested against the dark wood, and Dean's hands itched at the sight of the polished metal. "Take a peek."

Kneeling, Dean pressed his eye against the crack. Through the grid of the wire screen door he could see the Impala parked patiently in the diner's otherwise empty lot. The noon sunshine slid across her hood and Dean eyed the weapon filled trunk with longing. Across the road, and directly in his line of vision, sat the motel where he and Sam had planned on spending the night. Dean wondered if anyone alive was cloistered away in one of the many rooms.

The smell of decay suddenly intensified, and Dean concentrated on breathing through his mouth.

"Oh yeah," Paul whispered softly. "Here we go."

What stumbled into Dean's line of sight had once been a woman, and she had been buried in blue. There was dirt caked in the locks of her long red hair, and the flesh of her face was pulled tight and gray on the left side, but festering and green on the right. Her feet were bare, and her steps uneven, the movements slow and jerky. The rest of the body sagged forward as if filled with sand, and the head was kept down, chin to chest, which made the long locks fall into the creature's face. Occasionally the body twitched.

From the corner of his eye, Dean saw Paul pull his gun closer, the mouth of the weapon scarping against the cheap wood paneling. Dean pressed one finger against the shoe marked tiles and tapped it once for Sam to see.

The figure took two halting steps toward the diner, and then paused. The heavy head rolled to the left, like a dog cocking its ear at the notice of a high pitched whistle. Dean's fingernails dug into his palms and he fervently wished for a knife handle to strangle.

A shot was fired from across the road. There was no shooter in sight, but the sound echoed through the deserted town and banged off the walls of the empty buildings. There was no accompanying scream, but a second shot rang out. It was the second shot that the creature responded to, shuffling with disjointed steps in the opposite direction.

When the creature was out of sight, Paul ordered Dean back to the booth.

Sam kicked him under the table and his eyes slid to the door and then to the two men. The younger man tapped his pointer finger against the table once, and Dean nodded in confirmation.

The old man had moved behind the lunch counter, and the whites of his eyes seemed to swallow the blue of his irises. His breaths came fast and Dean eyed him with caution. The last thing they needed was for the only civilian in the room to go ape shit on them.

"Zombies," the old man muttered. "I can't believe there are _zombies_ outside."

"Those aren't zombies," Sam muttered peevishly.

The man's gaze became sharp and wild, and he took a menacing step towards them.

"Then what the hell are they?"

Sam shrugged.

"Undead Americans," Dean volunteered.

The man's face flushed red. A barking laugh sounded out from behind him.

"Undead Americans," Paul chuckled. "I like that."

Dean shrugged, "I've got a million of 'em."

Abandoning his post at the door, Paul sauntered over to join the conversation. He pulled a chair up to the table, turning it so that his stomach was pressed against the chair's back and laid the shot gun across his lap. A knife was produced from the folds of his jacket, small but sharp, and the older man began to calmly clean his fingernails with the tip.

"Take those things off," the man ordered. "I want to see your faces."

Sam hesitated, and even though the bandanna was covering a majority of his face Dean knew there was a locked jaw and gritted teeth hidden under the cloth.

"The bandannas," Paul repeated, flicking a bit of black grit off the tip of his knife. "Take em' off."

Sam complied first, pulling the green cloth down around his neck. Dean undid the knot behind his head and let his fall to the table.

"I've got to say," Paul said. "You two are taking this pretty well. The zombies I mean."

Dean saw his brother's eyes narrow.

"We've seen a lot of shit in our lives," Dean said casually. "We're not the panicking types. How exactly do you know those things are zombies?"

Paul snorted.

"Rotting corpses who climb out of the ground sniffing for human flesh, and who go down with a gun shot wound to the head. What else would they be? Haven't you boys ever seen a Romero flick before?"

Dean nodded. Sam rolled his eyes, but kept his mouth shut. His younger brother met Dean's gaze and raised a disbelieving eyebrow.

"Don't worry though, guys," Paul continued. "I've handled things like this before."

"You have?" Sam asked incredulously.

Paul nodded sagely. "Sure have. There're things out there, kid. Things that crawl around in the dark that would make your hair turn white. It's my job to take them out."

"I meant, zombies," Sam said with what had to have been a great effort on his part not put finger quotes around the word. "You've dealt with zombies before."

"Not zombies, no," Paul said. "But a well placed bullet with make most anything bleed out."

"What kind of bullets," Sam pressed. "Have you blessed them? Do you have any holy water? What sources did you check to make sure that a regular bullet will take these things down? Did you even think to do a little research and make sure what you're hunting here is what you think it is?"

Paul blinked and then began to laugh, a low scratchy short sound.

"You're a funny kid." The statement was accompanied by a ruffle through Sam's hair, and the younger Winchester's expression grew thunderous.

"Really, though. Don't worry kid," Paul continued. "I don't mean to brag, but I'm good at what I do. I'll do my best to get all of us out of here. You too Dirk."

The old man with the iron gray hair raised a hand, in acknowledgement or maybe thanks.

"How long have you been hunting these…creatures of the night?" Dean asked.

Paul wrapped his hands around the chair's back and tipped forward. A sigh blew past his lips, "Almost four months now."

The corners of Dean's lips twitched. "Really? Must be rough."

Paul grinned. "Naw. Like I said, most of this shit just needs a bullet between the eyes. In. Out. It's very clean work."

Sam snorted.

"Not that we don't appreciate your fine protection," Dean drawled. "But how do you figure you'll be able to keep us all from becoming monster meat?"

Paul leaned back, and the chair's legs landed on the tile with a thump.

"Actually, I'm going to need help on this one. Specifically yours and your brother's. They're not hard jobs, and I'd ask Dirk, but he's an old fucker, and I don't want the man going down from a heart attack."

"Help you how?" Sam asked, suspicious.

"Well, to start off you can tell me which one of you is the faster runner."

If nothing else, answering Paul's question with, "For sure me," had gotten Dean a weapon, and the sawed off shot gun felt good in his hands. He stepped cautiously across the darkened parking lot bits of glass crunching underneath his boots.

The diner's neon sign burned orange and yellow, branding the word _Lorna's_ into the dull black sky. Flat land surrounded him, nothing but long grass and road between him and the town to his right. Sam, Paul and Dirk had driven off about a half hour ago to set up whatever it was that was going to keep Dean from becoming an entrée. Dean had been left at the diner with the gun and instructions to wait for a text message, and while he wasn't happy about the separation, he wasn't happy about the situation as a whole and just wanted the whole thing to be finished.

_"The library will be to your left, about two miles down," Paul had told him back when the sun was still high. "Now you hit the road, and you run. The place shouldn't be locked, and you're going to have to find one of the display cases. There's an exhibit, some kind of alter that you're going to have to burn. I can't tell you which one so just torch the whole thing. Any of them get near you just shoot'em in the melon. They'll go down."_

_"How do you know they won't swarm? Take me down before I get there?"_

_"Every single one of those rotting fucks has been stumbling in the opposite direction of you. Towards town. Haven't seen a one of them heading the direction of the library."_

_"Yeah, but they're going to see me, they're going to smell me, and then come running."_

_"They won't."_

_"I need a little more than 'they won't.'"_

_Paul had grinned, a wide wolf's smile that showed off rows of square white teeth._

_"Me, Dirk and your brother will take the car into town and make sure your distractions are minimal. You just concentrate on running for your life."_

The first one came at Dean just as rounded the road's pock marked curve. A tall man in life, taller even than Sammy, with ash gray skin stumbled and jerked its way out of the shadows. Dean hadn't seen these creatures (Sam was right. Whatever these things were, they weren't zombies. They had dealt with zombies, and these things went down without the added need of being staked back into the grave) move faster than a slow shuffle, but he wasn't surprised when the dead man snarled at him and began to run. Supernatural things liked to bite you in the ass that way.

Dean fired, and the shot blew away the left half of the creature's head. He didn't stay long enough to watch it fall.

A strong wind blew past, and an amalgam of decomposing flesh, puss, grave dirt, melted eyeballs, and God only knew what else slammed into Dean's nose. He gagged, but pushed on.

He ran alone for a half mile before two more approached him; a teenage girl that looked newly dead, and an old man whose wrinkled flesh was so thin it just barely held in his lower intestines.

The old man went down easily enough, but the teenager grabbed a hold of Dean's arm and attempted to sink her teeth into his exposed forearm.

"I don't think so darlin'," Dean snarled and slammed the butt of the rife into the girl's face. The gun sunk into the soft mark, and Dan jerked back as the dead girl hit the dirt with a thud. A bullet made sure she stayed there.

The library doors were torn from their hinges and lying across the building's front steps. Dean stepped cautiously over the broken wood, gun at the ready. All was quiet, and he hoped empty.

The case was in the back of the children's section surrounded by torn books and dark carpet stains. There were shapes inside, large square blocks and what Dean thought looked like flowers and stones surrounding a crudely constructed wooden alter. It was too dark to focus on what kind of detailing covered the thing, but Dean would bet dollars to donuts that a little light would present his eyes with a variety of symbols slashed across the wood with brightly colored temper paints. That the walking dead had been summoned with a child's art project was equal parts hilarious and disturbing.

Dean broke through the top of the case with the butt of the gun. He felt a little guilty at tearing up a nearby copy of a childhood classic for fuel that he packed around the altar before striking the match. When he recounted his feat of heroism to Sam, he was pretty sure he'd leave the book burning out.

The fire caught easily, the dry paper and wood a perfect mix for this kind of destruction. Dean cupped his hand around a second match, ready to light the bits of construction paper and papier machie that rested next to the alter when he heard a thump. He spun, dropping the match, and pulled the gun up. A bleeding librarian watched him with glazed eyes from behind a pair of pink rimmed glasses. Dean's trigger finger twitched, and he took a step back aiming for her forehead.

The librarian looked from him to the shredded copy of _Hop On Pop_ and finally to the cheerfully burning fire in her display case. She reached for him with cracked finger nails, and as the smell of smoke and ash filled the room she collapsed.

Dean felt the tension run out of his body like water, and lowered his weapon with a sigh.

He found the Impala parked in front of the town's one church. Both car and building were surrounded by dozens of corpses that stayed lifeless and unmoving even after Dean dangled his foot over the open mouth of what he thought might have been the town's sheriff. The smell was unbearable, and Dean swallowed hard once before giving in and vomiting.

He found Paul inside. The pews had been torn up, the altar broken and the smell of incense outlined the stench that hung in the air. Paul, rifle in hand, was circling the perimeter occasionally stopping to prod a lump of dead flesh with his foot, or sink a bullet into the head of another. Neither Sam nor Dirk was in sight.

"Paul."

The man smiled wide at him. "Dean. Nice job. Nice job. Any of them come at you?"

"Yeah. I shot them. No problem."

Paul whistled. "Calm in a bad situation and a crack shot. You want to ditch your brother and come with me we might make a pretty good team. I think you'd be good at this life."

Dean shrugged. "Where are Sam and Father Time?"

"Dirk's out back," Paul said. "I haven't had time to get your brother down yet."

"Down from where?" Dean asked.

Paul motioned to the roof. Dean tipped his head back.

A rope had been tossed over one of the beams that made up the skeleton of the low church ceiling. Hanging from the end of it was Sam.

"Figured the only way to get them from chasing down dinner was to give them something stable, but just out of arms reach," Paul said. "It was like fishing."

The green bandanna had been fastened over his brother's eyes, and the rope encircled his waist as well as his wrists in an attempt to keep Sam from dislocating his shoulders. A twisted gesture of kindness.

"Sammy!" Dean called.

"I wouldn't bother," Paul said. "Your brother, he wasn't too keen on the plan. I'm not sure how strong some of those beams are, and I didn't want him squirming too much, so I had to give him something to calm him down."

Dean couldn't remember how many bullets he had left, and it was suddenly very important that he had at least one.

"Rope's tied off over there," Paul said motioning to the east wall. "When you get him down we'll torch this place, and then you can help me burn the rest of the bodies. I'll meet you outside."

As Paul turned to leave Dean brought the gun down hard on the back of the man's skull. He crumpled.

"Son of a bitch," Dean spat. "Sammy! Hold on. I'll get you down."

The knot that kept the rope tethered to a hook on the wall was strong, and a coil of extra rope was pooled on the floor. Dean's muscles screamed as he fought to slowly lower Sam, but his brother's weight made it almost impossible and he nearly dropped him several times. Sweat poured down his face, and Dean winced in sympathy when the rope slipped from his hands and Sam fell the last two feet.

The bandanna around his brother's eyes was soaked with sweat, and Dean was forced to cut it off when the knot proved to be troublesome. Sam pupils were blow wide, and upon seeing Dean he fought to keep his head up for a moment before tipping over. Sam's wrists were abraded and red form being held aloft for so long, and he grunted in pain flexing his now free fingers.

"Can you stand, Sam?" Dean said tersely, rubbing Sam's palms between his own hands to help the circulation. Sam's movements were awkward and coltish, and he looked at Dean through squinted eyes.

"m'head hurts."

"Yeah, I bet it does, but your legs. Are your legs ok?"

Sam moved to push Dean away and stand, but only succeeded in tipping and almost face planting into the dirty blond hair of a man long dead.

"Easy, dude! Jesus, easy."

Dean was beginning to understand his father's isolationist tendency when it came to other hunters.

Pulling Sam into a standing position, he threw his brother's arm around his shoulder and proceeded to drag him through the demolished church.

"So research boy, what do you think they were?" Dean asked as they passed by Paul's unconscious form.

Sam's head fell to his shoulder. "Wha'?"

"The undead things we just took out. They're not zombies-don't trip over the dead dude's arm, Sammy-so what they hell were they?"

Sam either didn't hear or didn't heed Dean's advice, and Dean's knees buckled as his brother stumbled over the skeletal appendage. Dean gritted his teeth and readjusted his hold.

"If we can't dig anything up on them, does that mean we get to name them?" Dean continued, pulling Sam across the fallen church doors and into the night. Dirk was no where in sight, and Dean hoped it would stay that way.

The wind picked up, and Dean's senses were again assaulted by the stench of unwashed, undead bodies. This time, when Sam keeled over, it was to empty the contents of his stomach onto the church's stone steps.

"Yeah," Dean said, as he held Sam up, and ran a comforting hand over his brother's broad back. "I think that means we get to name them. Hell, I'll even let you pick it."

Sam muttered something sharp that Dean didn't catch, and so ignored. Looping his free arm around his brother's waist, he maneuvered Sam down the last few steps.

"Sam," Dean said. "Please tell me you have the keys."

"Pocket," Sam murmured.

"Good. We are blowing this popsicle stand."


End file.
